


Cue Marks

by ImogenPortchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crying, Depression, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Self-Harm, Wincest - Freeform, cigarette burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11355057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenPortchester/pseuds/ImogenPortchester
Summary: Dean prefers his healing in the form of booze, bar fights, bloody knuckles, and pounding hangovers. But that never has been Sam’s style.Sam needs to hurt—really hurt.





	Cue Marks

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags, few as they are. This may be triggering to some, so please keep that in mind before you read.

Dean flicks the cigarette butt to the ground and crushes it under his boot.

He tries not to smoke much anymore—only when Sam is in one of his moods does he feel the addiction prickle in his chest. When Sam balls his hands into fists and punches himself in the thighs; when he digs his nails into his palms, leaving bloody crescents in their wake; when Dean finds long strands of hair, torn out at the root, littering the library table where Sam’s books are spread out.

Dean gets it to an extent. It’s stress, it’s guilt, it’s Hell, it’s the people they couldn’t save. It’s pain that can only be soothed with a different kind of pain. Dean prefers his healing in the form of booze, bar fights, bloody knuckles, and pounding hangovers. But that never has been Sam’s style.

Sam needs to hurt—really hurt. He almost mentioned therapy to Sam once but worried that Sam would end up locked away in a psych ward somewhere.

He exhales that final drag that he’d been holding and opens the front door of the bunker. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs he tosses the pack of cigarettes onto the war room table. Sam is standing in the entrance to the library, shifting from one foot to the other, looking crazed. His hair is wild and his eyes are wide, feral. Dean has seen neither hide nor hair of him all day and now here he is, his presence shocking.

“You alright?”

Sam ignores the question. His tongue pokes out to wet his chapped lips and he eyes the smokes on the table.

Dean’s gaze follows. “You want one?”

Sam’s fists ball up and he goes up onto his toes, the tips hanging slightly off the edge of the step.

“Sam?”

Sam nods slightly.

Dean tosses the pack to Sam, whose left hand darts out to catch it. Cat-like reflexes, even in this state.

As Dean fishes in his jeans pocket for his Zippo Sam turns away and heads down the hallway towards his bedroom. Dean follows, perplexed.

He finds Sam perched on the edge of his bed, the cigarette hanging between his lips. He looks at Dean expectantly. Dean fumbles for his lighter again then holds the flame up for Sam, who breathes in deeply around the lit cigarette. He shudders on the exhale. Mindful of the cigarette, he rearranges himself on the bed so he’s sitting against the headboard. He takes another drag then ashes into a coffee mug on his nightstand.

Dean has never seen Sam smoke before and the sight turns him on.

Sam holds the cigarette out to Dean and he takes it. He isn’t ready to smoke again so he just holds it between his fingers while Sam rids himself of his shirt and gray sweatpants, underwear nowhere in sight. He takes the smoke again then sits back on the bed.

Dean sheds his clothes as well and joins his brother on the bed. They face each other, Sam with his legs outstretched before him and Dean sitting on his heels with his legs tucked under him. Sam leans forward and kisses Dean hungrily, the taste of Marlboro Red strong on his tongue. Sam claws at Dean’s chest and whines high in his throat when Dean cups his ass with both hands. Sam pulls away, ashes in the mug, then places the cigarette in Dean’s mouth. Dean takes a languid drag then exhales with it still between his lips. Sam scoots back up on the bed to his former position and places a foot in Dean’s lap. Dean kneads the arch with both thumbs. He doesn’t have a foot fetish but if he did he would certainly worship Sam’s smooth, slender feet.

He’s looking at Sam’s semi-hard cock when Sam whispers, “Please.” It’s the first word he’s heard him say all day.

Dean offers the cigarette to Sam, almost gone now, but Sam shakes his head. Dean’s brow furrows, confused. Sam nudges his foot in Dean’s lap.

Realization dawns on him.

“Sam…”

Sam nods furiously, his eyes desperate.

“Jesus, I—“

“Please,” he whispers again.

Dean swallows thickly, ashamed at the way his own dick has taken the slightest interest.

“Are you sure?”

Sam nods, softer this time.

It’s not the first time Sam has asked him to do something like this. He beat Sam’s ass with a belt, slapped him across the face, yanked him around by a handful of his hair. But this is…

Sam must really be hurting.

Dean steadies himself. He takes one last drag to calm his nerves then positions Sam’s foot in his lap. His eyes flick up to Sam’s, his gaze fixed on the burning cherry in Dean’s right hand.

He smoothes a thumb over the arch again then grasps the top of Sam’s foot tightly.

He presses the lit cigarette into Sam’s poor flesh. The smell of burning tissue makes Dean’s stomach roll. Sam cries out and instinctively tries to jerk his foot away from the heat but Dean’s firm grip doesn’t allow it.

He pulls the cigarette away from the skin and has to turn his head away from the sight of the angry welt that has ash peppered into it.

Tears gush from underneath Sam’s clenched eyelids.

Dean holds him for a moment, his palm soothing the top of Sam’s foot and ankle, afraid to move until he is sure that Sam is… is what? Okay? Clearly Sam is not okay—nothing about this is okay. So Dean just holds him until he stops crying.

Sam whispers a wet, “Thank you.” Dean stands and goes to get the first aid kit. Sam seems to welcome the hydrogen peroxide on his wound.

Dean wraps a bandage around Sam’s foot and Sam whispers another “thank you.” Dean nods, eyes fixed on his task.

He really should quit smoking.


End file.
